O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,Missing so much and so much?O fat white woman whom nobody loves,Why do you walk through the fields in gloves,When the grass is soft as the breast of dovesAnd shivering-sweet to the touch?O why do you walk through the fields in gloves,Missing so much and so much?

"To a Fat Lady Seen from the Train", from Poems (Hampstead: Priory Press, 1910) p. 20.

Whoso maintains that I am humbled now(Who wait the Awful Day) is still a liar;I hope to meet my Maker brow to browAnd find my own the higher.